


The Tune Your Bones Play

by badbavarois



Series: waterloo [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Regret, Self-Hatred, every character i've ever written needs Help, oof, takes place during when i fall for that/let me down gently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-24 23:45:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13821984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badbavarois/pseuds/badbavarois
Summary: Loving Yuuri - he could never regret that. Everything else, though, he could.Victor pov companion piece towhen i fall for that/let me down gently





	The Tune Your Bones Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iambic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/gifts).



> _“Tonight as it gets cold_  
>  tell yourself  
> what you know which is nothing  
> but the tune your bones play  
> as you keep going. And you will be able  
> for once to lie down under the small fire  
> of winter stars.”  
> Mark Strand, ‘Lines for Winter’  
> you should probably read when i fall for that/let me down gently but don't let me tell you how to live your life  
> edited by ray

There’s something grounding in death - in its inevitability, in its finality. Victor’s been separated from the rest of the world since he first learned to skate, blissfully unaware of how far he would propel himself from all his friends. He formed this darkness, this distance, this chasm in his bones that sunk into the calcium until it broke, shards in his blood.

 

In death, he is grounded. In death, they’re all the same.

 

It’s winter and it’s snowing, a heavy white blanket on the tarmac. The plane wheels slide on the ice, skidding. Victor’s never liked flying, doesn’t know how Yurio sleeps through it beside him. It’s for the best, though, for him to not see his coach cry as they return home.

 

When he was younger, coming home from an international competition was something he loved - returning to his home rink, his apartment, Makkachin and the city, the hum under his skates. But this time, the air’s sour, smog heavy.

 

It’s not home, anymore.

 

…

 

He sleeps alone and dreams of Yuuri, his shy smile and soft voice, warm curves and careful skating. The last time they spoke,  _ actually  _ spoke, the night before Hot Springs on Ice.

 

_ “I don’t think I can win, Victor.” _

 

_ “I know you can.” _

 

Victor’s not used to being wrong and he’s not used to losing. He doesn’t like it, the way it settles heavy in his stomach like lead, frozen and rough. He presses his fingers into his hips, knows that if he digs deep enough, nails breaking the skin, he can be free of it. 

 

But - Victor knows he shouldn’t be free of it. He formed it, breathed life into it. He can’t kill it, too.

 

…

 

_ You push yourself too hard, Victor. _

 

He doesn’t remember who said it to him first, because everyone says it now - Yakov, his parents, Yuuri, other skaters. A fan once, after saying his performance took her breath away. 

 

Everyone says it, but no one is telling him any other way to be. He never learned how to do things by half measures, so he pulled himself out of skating. That’s what they wanted, right? For him to take a break? 

 

But they hated that, turned and snapped on Yuuri like rabid dogs. Thousands of miles away and Victor knows he’s the reason Yuuri is breaking, coming apart at the seams every time he appears at a competition. He caused this, like the pit in his stomach, except this he can not tear out of himself. This has taken on a life of its own.

 

Victor tries to ignore it, tries to focus on building up his Yuri - it’s his job now, after all, Yuri’s paying for it - but he still chokes on it. He falls asleep to a video of Yuuri fucking up his ankle, a gasp breaking his lungs every time he watches Yuuri fall. 

 

“I caused this,” he says into the black, into the void. When it doesn’t respond, he repeats himself, “I  _ caused  _ this.”

 

It’s easier to focus on Yuuri, intangible, blurry pixels, than on himself. At least, then, he can regret what he did wrong.

 

Loving Yuuri - he could never regret that.

 

…

 

He doesn’t know how it started - it wasn’t at the airport, when he mistook Yuuri as a fan, or back at the onsen, when Yuuri had been blushing down his neck but never once looked away. 

 

He fell in love in the quiet moments at the rink, watching Yuuri practice quad after quad - skating and jumping and falling and getting up to skate again. He fell in love with the easy grace of his step sequence, his bitten lips, and furrowed brow as Victor explained the choreography. His blurry eyes, blinking behind thick glasses first thing in the morning, shirt rumpled and boxers low on his hips.

 

When he got on the plane, he told himself to not look back, to shove it down and ignore all the  _ what if’s  _ and  _ could have been's.  _ That this wanting deep in his chest would hurt both of them. 

 

Even if things are getting better for people like Victor, he can’t drag Yuuri down with him, not after everything he’s worked so hard for. 

 

…

 

Yurio’s home, sleeping, and Victor is at the rink. It’s two am, and Victor is skating. Barely any of the lights are on, just the ones directly overhead the ice and Victor wonders if Yuuri is skating too. He’s not thinking as he plays  _ On Love: Eros,  _ not thinking as he runs through the routine he made for Yuuri. 

 

Victor thought he was being obvious, knows there’s no way Yuuri didn’t see his true intentions. But still - he wishes he had done more.

 

…

 

Yurio makes it into the Grand Prix Final to literally no one’s surprise, but Victor chokes up when he sees Yuuri made it too. The last time they had been so close was the Rostelecom Cup, and Victor knows Yuuri was avoiding him, but this time,  _ this time,  _ Victor will see him, force them to talk and clear whatever… this is.

 

He doesn’t expect it to come in an elevator, cramped and too early for rational thought. Yuuri holds his bag between them like a shield. Victor pretends it’s not the wall they both know it is, the clear sign that this is no man’s land, uncrossable. 

 

“Yuuri,” he waits until the last second to say. “I’m sorry about what happened at the onsen.”

 

“It’s okay,” Yuuri says, but Victor can see his throat working, like he’s trying to swallow down an egg whole. 

 

“I didn’t think it would work out that way.” The moment he says it, he sees something flash in Yuuri’s eyes, cold and harsh and  _ what else did you expect?  _ “I thought - “

 

“It’s fine, Victor. Yuri Plisetsky is talented.”

 

_ You’re talented too,  _ Victor wants to say,  _ more talented than you give yourself credit for,  _ but he knows it would come out sounding shallow and insincere.

 

“I’m sorry I dragged you away from the sport.”

 

“Yuuri - “ he starts to say, not sure of how he’s going to follow it, reaching out, but the doors are opening and Yuuri’s gone with barely a backward glance. 

 

…

 

Victor should have known something was wrong, but - scratch that - he knew something was wrong, but didn’t do anything. And now, Yuuri’s bleeding out on international television, crumbled on the ice like an abandoned doll.

 

It feels more like something out of a dream, or maybe a nightmare, watching Yuuri twitch out on the ice as red blood slowly spreads beneath his head.

Victor doesn’t know what overtakes him, but he’s shoving other skaters and cameramen aside to reach the ice. He ignores everything around him, because all that matters is Yuuri, and it was so obvious something was wrong in the elevator that morning, and why didn’t Victor notice, and why didn’t he stop this -

The song ends a few seconds before he reaches the gate, and maybe this is a bad idea - walking on ice in his thousand dollar dress shoes, but he can buy new ones. He can’t buy a new Katsuki Yuuri.

He drops to his knees once he’s by Yuuri’s side and pulls his head onto his lap. His gloved fingers are red and sticky in an instant, and Yuuri’s hair is tacky with cooling blood. Victor tugs off his scarf and pushes it against the wound, biting his bottom lip until he tastes copper.

“Please make it,” he whispers, because this is a dangerous sport, but he never thought he would lose anyone to it. “Come on, you can’t die without winning first.”

“Sir,” someone says, “you need to make room for the medics.”

He doesn’t listen, shakes his head, because letting go means losing Yuuri, means letting him bleed out on international television, cold and alone.

“Sir,” someone begins, but a second person drags him away, yanking Yuuri away from him. A medic replaces him, holding gauze. They remove Victor’s scarf, clicking their tongue and pressing down with the gauze.

 

And then Yuuri’s gone and Victor’s all alone, left with nothing more than red ice and a ruined scarf.

 

…

 

He’s shaking so badly he can barely flag down a taxi to the hospital, curls up against the window and shivers the whole way there. He throws a fifty euro note at the driver and stumbles out the door before getting the change. He trips over himself to get inside.

 

“Katsuki Yuuri,” he chokes out, chest heaving, “From the Grand Prix accident.”

 

The secretary takes a long look at him, raises an eyebrow. “He’s in surgery now, so you can’t see him, but I’ll let you know when he’s out. You can wait until then.”

 

…

 

He thought, before, that he had seen Yuuri at his worst, but that’s nothing compared to now, pale and broken and so  _ small, _ as the nurse rattles off everything he did to himself. 

 

“Will he ever be able to skate again?”

 

Her lack of response is answer in and of itself.

 

…

 

Moving to Japan and never looking back is easy. Yuuri’s parents agree right away, gush on the phone about how they can clean up his old room and it’ll be good as new, how they didn’t know how they would get their son to physical therapy and back but Victor could do that, how Victor and Makkachin could help him rebuild his world.

 

He sleeps in Yuuri’s bed that night, wrapped up in Yuuri’s blankets, and he knows why St Petersburg didn’t feel like home.

 

…

 

He kisses Yuuri on the beach, soft and slow, sand in his eyes and clothes.

 

“I love you,” he says, mouth still pressed against Yuuri. Says it again, hopes that if he says it enough, it will leave a mark, and brand to remind Yuuri of whose heart he won.

 

“I love you too, Victor.”

 

...

 

It’s two years before Yuuri is steady enough and stable enough to pull his skates back on. They’re old, a worn out pair he left in his closet. 

 

The rink is empty except for the two of them, Victor leading Yuuri out onto the ice. He stumbles over his ice pick and Victor tries to not laugh. He’s worse than a baby deer, nose wrinkled so much Victor can’t help but kiss it.

 

“What was that for?” He tries to sound annoyed but he’s smiling, just barely, lips curling at the corners.

 

“Nothing,” Victor says. “I’m just proud of you.”

 

And he is - he’s always been proud of Yuuri.

**Author's Note:**

> oof i promised this almost a year ago bc i still have your comment in my inbox but i hope this was adequate!!   
> comments/kudos are appreciated, also i still really like this verse??  
> requests are open but not guaranteed (obviously rip)  
> tumblr - shuos-jedao/mother-iwa-chan/claude-lit  
> twitter - cactixix


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